


Now, Voyager

by happinesssdeceit (crescenttwins)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Frottage, Ice Skating, M/M, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-10-06 00:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10321544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescenttwins/pseuds/happinesssdeceit
Summary: Victor is born in the dead of winter, ice and chill wrapping the city of heroes in a blanket of white. Is it any wonder that he would have eventually been drawn to the ice?For the prompt, "There's no hiding how hot and bothered you are, darling..." Bonus if it's Yuuri saying that, not Viktor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For the Viktuuri Spring Secret Santa. I hope you like it!
> 
> The title comes from the couplet "The Untold Want" by Walt Whitman, and much of it was written to the ["It Can't Be Wrong" by Max Steiner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnwA6gznDn0), which is the main theme of a movie by the same title. Whitman's couplet is pasted below in its entirety:
> 
>  
> 
> _The untold want by life and land ne'er granted,_  
>  _Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find._

Victor is born in the dead of winter, ice and chill wrapping the city of heroes in a blanket of white. The snow is heavy that year, for all that it is not the coldest city in the land, where puffs of breath sparkle white in the cold air and icicles catch light on the overhangs where water gathers to be dragged to the ground. 

He is a small baby. His first sound is not a cry but a cough, and it isn’t until he is nestled in his mother’s arms, her warmth imprinting safety all along his developing mind, that he sobs, rolling tears that soak through the collar of her dressing gown. The sound of her heartbeat calms him, a steady and familiar melody, and beyond her shoulder he sees a blur of enchanting white.

By the time he is four, Victor learns that the cough that settles in his lungs all too easily is not an acute illness but a lifelong weakness. The doctors prescribe exercise, physical activity to bolster his system. 

And at age four, Victor gets his first pair of ice skates. 

(If he were a more superstitious man, or a more guileless one, he might look back on it as the first sign of his career to come. The man who would become known as Russia’s hero, born on a winter’s day and wielding blades of a different sort than the bloody heroes of history. 

But Victor was born and raised with the winters of Russia and chilled air in his lungs, sharp and pervasive. Is it any wonder that he would have eventually been drawn to the ice?)

  
  


He will never have the stamina of other children, who can step onto the ice and practice until they get bored; his body, or perhaps his mind, was not designed for it. Instead, Victor dreams of skating when he is grounded, strokes and crossovers and  _ speed _ , speed enough to slide into turns and jumps, step sequences to catch the eye. He craves the strain in his legs and chest that come from training, slides across the ice at the beginning of his lesson and leaves only when the instructor remains, other children nameless blurs in the face of the ice. 

At times, skating feels like an extension of the Winter, stretched out into the Spring and the Summer and the Autumn, when all the true snow has melted away. The cool air that lingers above the ice is matched with the burn of the stretch in his legs and the heat in his body where he has fallen. His throat is aflame, from cold air and heavy rasping breaths alike, and his feet are painful where he stands. 

Victor has never felt more alive, chasing that heat amongst the ice.

  
  


Victor is ten and he is in St. Petersburg to participate in a summer camp held by a man named Yakov Feltsman, who he associates with a stern red face and a balding head. From him, Victor learns how to stretch and how to avoid injury, how to increase flexibility and how gesture can hide exhaustion behind grace. 

The first time Victor raises his leg above his head and holds it there, the stretch an easy burn in his back and thighs, he waits until they are given permission to move out of position to laugh, cheerful and bright and victorious, loudly enough that Yakov comes over to scold him. (But in his mind, in his mind, pieces are locking together, are becoming tangible and possible and the bubbling delight in his chest and the slight strain in his legs say  _ it’s real, it’s real _ .)

The adults call him a phenom when they speak alone, remarkable in his expression while he skates and the speed at which he absorbs and implements techniques. Victor hums and accepts the praise with the kind of casual arrogance that only affirms their belief, and quietly quietly runs through the lessons learned in his mind. 

And here, here is the secret to his so-called genius: his stubborn attachment to ideas, his constant mental rehearsal.

It has its cost: when a girl misses a turn, slams into the rink wall with a shriek of pain and tears imminent-- Victor’s instinct is to skate  _ away _ , to find someone else to deal with the situation.

At the end of the summer camp, Yakov pulls Victor and his mother aside and says  _ You would benefit from having a coach  _ in more words and with a hefty price tag attached. They can not afford it, and although Victor  _ wants  _ he knows this.  _ I’ll win you a medal _ , he offers instead, in lieu of a price.  _ I’ll win you  _ every _ medal.  _

His casual arrogance startles the adults, makes Yakov go redder in the face and start to shout (but, to be fair, to be fair-- he fulfills his promise, is at the pinnacle of the skating world the moment he enters the senior division).

  
  


Victor begins to learn his limits when his body fails-- not his lungs, but his ankle, a messy fall in the wake of a missed triple. He is off the ice for two weeks, sullen and pouting, his frustration translated to scribbles on his senior school papers. He receives a scolding that he accepts half-heartedly from a teacher whose name he will forget within the year, and spends the time he is grounded watching videos of jumps from professional competitions.

There is a transition that occurs, from watching toe loops to full routines, the difficult maneuvers that are performed quickly and smoothly, skaters like beautiful puppets until the moment the music ends, when their strings become visible and their exertion obvious. He holds his breath when a program starts, heart picking up in tempo and then slowing to a stutter when it ends, utterly enraptured. His favorite programs are the ones that surprise him, that weave in step sequences where he expects a jump, whose spins unravel from seated to upright in mere moments.

The margins of his school assignments grow heavy with inked program sequences, jumps and turns and spins, transitions and surprises. He grins when he imagines them, the burn of exertion arcing through his body while he is greeted with utter delight and surprise from his audience.

Victor returns to ice with his mind full of music, pushes his body through the basics again and again until they are easier than the breath rattling in his chest.

  
  


He moves to St. Petersburg, to Yakov’s rink. He brings Makkachin with him, because Makkachin has always been  _ Victor’s _ puppy. There are times when he regrets this choice-- when he find Makkachin has had an accident while he was away, when he has to re-lace his skates where Makkachin has been tugging on the cotton, when his food is swiped out from his inattentive eye. He trades all the annoyances and more for the delight in Makkachin’s gesture when he greets him at the door, his willingness to cuddle when Victor is feeling lonely, and a companion for his walks in the mornings.

His new school is nearby, as nearby as one could hope in a city like St. Petersburg, and every time he arrives for practice, Yakov seems to have lost more hair. (The older man swats at him when he says this, jaw slightly agape and it makes Victor glide across the ice with laughter in his eyes.)

There is something beautiful about St. Petersberg, the glittering lights of its palaces and churning crowds. The delicate twists and elegant lines of large snowflakes melt easily against hats and scarves and skin; Victor marvels at them, at the snow that crunches under his feet, compact and bulky compared to the smooth ice he dreams of. In the day, Victor skates for Yakov: sequences of spins and turns that he completes without complaint, basics and stamina to build upon. In the night, Victor skates for himself: the jumps and footwork that he dreams of, that bring back the ache in legs and the exhilaration in chest. 

Yakov sees him, one night when he’s lain out on the ice, air stubbornly refusing to stay in his lungs. His skin is sticking slightly to the ice where the fine ice shavings are dissolving.

The older man yells. 

It is something Victor has come to expect. 

But Yakov also forbids Victor from performing quads until he is in the senior division. Victor hums in response, his mind already attached to the way he’ll have to shift his center of gravity to land one perfectly. 

  
  


Victor wins a competition, wins two competitions, starts gathering medals as evidence of his hard work. Yakov gets an influx of students, who peer at him while he skates and glance away quickly when he smiles at them. There is something pleasant about kissing gold, Victor thinks, back straight as he accepts his accolades. The cameras flash, blinding and obnoxious, and soon his mind will be racing over his performance, the fumbling mistakes he dared to let the audience see. 

But for now, in this moment, Victor focuses on the heat in his core, in his muscles and lungs; a warmth that reminds him of his effort and-- he craves it, this feeling that is bubbling inside him at the success of his skate.  _ Nikiforov’s a genius, _ the news will say in countries Victor has never set foot in,  _ and the world should anticipate his breakout in the senior division. There will definitely be some shake-ups, but we’re delighted to see where this talented Russian will surprise us next. _

There are two things, now, that Victor craves: the thrill in his chest of the unexpected-- of shocking and being shocked, of being immersed so deeply that any controlled perturbation is a delight; and the heat that dominates his body when he skates, warmth enough to push away the chill in his lungs and the exhaustion in his feet, to let him glide and jump at the end of an exhausting day.

  
  


Skaters in the senior division are different-- not just because they are older, but because they are experienced and it shows in the curve of their Ina Bauers and the sound their skates make when they land a difficult jump. Their intensity is different, a casual sidestep into competitor when their blades are on the ice. 

Victor adores them, these passionate skaters that make him crave victory all the more, make him stretch his imagination as he skates tale after tale into song. At sixteen, they say he is at the top of the world. They print magazines covers of his face on the podium, because Victor is pretty, grinning from his achievement with the gold medal hanging from his neck.

(And along with the rush that comes from victory, Victor discovers a craving for another kind of heat, this time coming emanating from the place where he contacts another’s sweat slicked skin; he loses his first kiss and his virginity enthusiastically to a man he will not remember the name of, but who was kind enough to be gentle.)

  
  


Victor keeps on skating, keeps on winning. His nighttime encounters are hot and casual; his promises easy and forgotten; his programs more and more difficult with each coming competition. He learns names of people who are important or who are interesting, flirts his way out of reprimand when he forgets, and makes friends who have used him as a benchmark since they started skating competitively. (And amidst it all, he gathers more medals than he can hold on a single shelf, travels and takes selfies wherever he can. When he returns home, he always shows off to Makkachin, who is his best and worst audience.)

Victor keeps on skating, because he loves the sport. The news articles say that he is at the top of the sport, start to wonder at his next performance, his next surprise. Victor likes these articles, likes them more than the ponderings of his retirement date as his age slips closer to thirty. 

  
  


His imagination falters, the programs he has always drafted easily breaking apart in his hands. His quads are beautiful but expected; his footwork clean and utterly conventional; his gesture seductive but uninspiring. 

Make no mistake: it is less because Victor does not want to skate, and more because the audience has seen him skate and is satiated with what they have already seen: an avaricious monster borne of his own need to constantly surprise. 

It is the first time Victor stares out at the ice, wonders whether this is it-- the slow death of the competitor, the slide into retirement.

  
  


And then.

And then, at the banquet that Victor usually stays at only long enough to take selfies and drink enough alcohol to have a pleasant buzz under his skin, a drink-induced heat that will simmer nicely when he finds a companion for the night--

Victor meets Yuuri.

And this is the meeting that Victor will remember as their first  _ proper _ meeting, never mind that Yuuri is drunk and half-naked, a horrifying tie around his neck and the pieces of his cheap suit chucked over a long-abandoned table. The man is graceful but strong, and Victor half-remembers the sequence of footwork across the ice as he dances. Here, he drinks an expensive wine from the bottle, fingers loose and face flushed.

Victor is surprised, delighted to be, and so he dances with the other skater and snaps photos all the while. And after, after the Japanese skater has stripped down further and twisted toned muscle around a stripper pole, has shown himself to be strong enough that Victor is more than a little Interested, well--

The other male is pressed up against Victor’s chest, arms pulling Victor tightly to him as he grinds against him. He smells of sweet alcohol and sweat, familiar enough in a more intimate environment that Victor can’t help but react, lose focus on the string of unfamiliar syllables that are coming from the shorter skater’s mouth. He hears  _ coach _ and  _ dance battle _ , tries to refocus on the attractive man writhing against him in time for the male to pull away, eyes shining, say,

_ Be my coach, Victorrrr-- _

\--and wrap arms around Victor’s neck, pressing his face into the fabric of Victor’s lapel. 

Heat rushes through Victor, heavy and wanting, and if only, if  _ only _ the other skater was more sober, if consent could be given; he would gather the male into his arms, into his room, into his bed and wrap himself in this surprising, surprising man, see if the glimpse of arrogance during the dance battle would translate well in the bedroom. 

But Yuuri is drunk, a table’s worth of champagne flutes and a bottle of wine resting in his belly, so he lets the other’s coach pull the inebriated man away. 

The conversations he has for the rest of the night are a blur, contents lost to the replay of the way Yuuri’s body twisted and shone beneath the lights. 

  
  


Victor watches Yuuri slip in competition, watches him waste his impressive stamina and footwork on half-completed jumps, watches the flare of frustration that permeates the other skater’s movements in the moments that follows. And in those moments Victor can see it, a piece of that night. 

And, well. He may be interesting, but only if he gets back up.

  
  


Victor takes a break from regular training, to the displeasure of Yakov.

His rink mates, who have seen him piece together not one but two programs from the remnants of Yuuri’s dance at the banquet, watch him carefully at the rink these days. The question of the last reporter lingers in the air, the  _ what will you do next season _ that Victor dismissed with a wink. 

Victor doesn’t know.

(Victor knows this: it is becoming more difficult to choreograph programs; he always expects to be on the podium; Makkachin takes longer to jump on the couch these days.)

And perhaps he is becoming disenchanted with playing a game he will always win, with chasing a heat on the ice that is dependent on his audience, a thrill that becomes more and more rare the longer he is an active competitor. Perhaps it takes him a bit longer to catch his breath after a difficult skate, a wheezing sound starting in his chest from the place where the cold air rattles. 

He is not the competitive skater he started as, Victor thinks, reaching to catch the edges of his hair where it brushes against his face, the spot where it is already thinning on his scalp. 

_ Athletes make unexpected decisions when backed into a corner _ , Victor thinks. 

  
  


It is time for a change, he thinks, Makkachin cradled against his chest and a familiar skater doing a familiar routine playing on his phone. 

  
  


_ We’re going to Japan, Makkachin _ , Victor announces, and Makkachin agrees, chasing his ankles when he spins on his wooden floor.

  
  


Yuuri lives in a town by the sea, with a small rink and a (ninja!) castle and trees that shed pale pink petals. He lives in a hot spring inn, and despite the time they spend together naked in the bath, Yuuri shies away when Victor wants to sleep with him. 

Confusion remains a low thrum in the background, even as Yuuri sheds weight and competes against Yurio and starts to become a real competitor. The lines of his arms, the level of gesture that he develops: these are things Yuuri has trained into his body with endless practice, things that make Victor imagine the ice, imagine slipping against him and caressing him, being carried by that level of power. 

Yuuri’s stamina gives them more space, more time to capture the audience, Victor thinks, hums as he mentally slides a few more jumps back to the second half of the program. 

  
  


Yuuri doesn’t drink before competitions, Victor learns. He is jetlagged easily, sleeps and sleeps on days before the competition anxiety starts to settle, warm and soft. He murmurs when Victor slips out of their hotel room, is still asleep when Victor returns a few hours later. He lays on his belly, face pushed into his pillow, and his shirt always slides up, exposing a few inches of sleep warm skin.

If they were closer, not coach-and-student but something more intimate, Victor would slide his hand against that sliver of skin as he leaned down to press a kiss to Yuuri’s head.

(But they’re not. Not yet.)

  
  


Yuuri is beautiful, in the way that a snowflake might be-- a subtle intricacy built on elegant but fine lines, appreciated by only those who look for them. He’s awkward with cameras and fans, stiff with skaters he’s unfamiliar with and horrifically self-conscious. It helps, Victor knows, when he is next to Yuuri, a natural buffer to draw the eye. 

But Victor’s social buffering aside, Yuuri is astonishingly independent. He is transparent, worries and anxieties and stress worn atop his skin like beacons. He cries when Victor pushes, yells at Victor because he wants to solve his own problems, retreats into his own skin and simmers and simmers until he makes a decision.

Victor learns to say silent when Yuuri’s eyes sparkle, learns to let Yuuri solve his own problems in his own time. 

(It’s more difficult than he ever thought it would be, wanting someone else to be happy.)

  
  


In a church, Yuuri pulls off Victor’s glove and slides a ring on his finger and stutters out apologies and asks for words of good luck. And Victor’s eyes move from the glint of gold on his finger to the flush of Yuuri’s downturned face, and he thinks,

_ When backed into a corner, athletes really can act completely unexpectedly, _

and

_ He made his decision after all, _

and

_ This is it-- I’ll believe in him. _

  
  


In the end: Yuuri doesn’t win gold. Yuuri wears no gold but Victor’s ring around his finger as he leans over Victor, legs and arms caging the older man on the bed. 

Victor leans up, curls a hand around the nape of Yuuri’s neck to pull him into a kiss, pressed together for long moment before he pulls away, watches the way Yuuri’s face takes on a sharp edge of competition. It’s easy for him to curl an arm around Yuuri’s back, pull him downwards until they’re flush against each other. And this has always been one of Victor’s favorite parts, he thinks, sliding a hand against the waist of Yuuri’s pants and then down.

Yuuri bites him in response, a sharp but casual thing that makes Victor jerk at the rush of pleasure-pain that reverberates through him. It takes him a moment before he can pull back to eye the other male cautiously. Yuuri licks his lips when Victor meets his eyes, and the resulting shudder of arousal is nothing that Victor would ever try to hide. He slides a leg between Yuuri’s, presses against a clothed bulge in a way that earns him a moan and an arm around his back, pulling him close enough that Yuuri can bite him again, even as their crotches come into contact. 

Yuuri is just as flexible as he had been that night, more than a year ago, Victor thinks as the other male ruts against him, bringing their clothed erections into teasing contact again and again. It’s more difficult than it should be for Victor to remember to spread his legs, to make it easier for their lengths to press against one another. Searing heat makes him flush, focused on nothing but the contact of Yuuri’s body against his, soft-wet lips pressing against his own, and he feels light headed enough that he thinks he could come, just like this. 

A moment later, Yuuri pulls away, dragging a hand to Victor’s hip as he tries to follow, presses down lightly and kisses him, careful not to bring their bodies back into contact.

Victor whines, watches the way it makes Yuuri focus on his lips. He licks his lips, to see how far he can push the younger male, and slips a hand up the loose edge of Yuuri’s shirt, pushing it up and away.

Yuuri stares at him for a moment, watching, and then pulls his shirt off in a smooth motion. The planes of his chest are nothing new-- toned from practice and exercise, smooth and a shade lighter than the rest of his skin. But in this context, it feels like something illicit, something exciting: a boundary. The thought makes him flush, slide the hand down to Yuuri’s pants, to bypass the drawstrings and cup the other male’s length through the cloth. 

“There’s really no hiding how hot and bothered you are,” Yuuri says, voice rough, pressing his lips to Victor’s before pulling away entirely. Victor makes a sound in protest, even as he takes the opportunity to pull off his own shirt. Just across the bed, Yuuri freezes, eyes locked on Victor’s bare skin, and the male groans, “darling.”

“ _ Darling _ , is it?” Victor purrs, amused. “Well, as long as you take your pants off, I don’t mind.”

  
  


Yuuri skates on the ice mindlessly, lets his arms and legs carry him around the rink as Victor watches the morning light shine atop freshly fallen snow. He hums when he steps onto the ice, newly sharpened blades and well practiced muscle carrying him next to Yuuri easily. The thought is half formed until it leaves his lips, his next surprise for his favorite audience.

“Yuuri, shall we skate a duet?”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always much appreciated! <3


End file.
